


After the Wait

by Meandrina



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Relationships, F/M, Obsessive Behavior, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 05:03:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2455787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meandrina/pseuds/Meandrina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to 'Waiting'. Based on the song titled 'Animals' by Maroon 5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Wait

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to my fanfic titled 'Waiting', and you will have to read that one to fully understand this.
> 
> Disclaimer: All characters featured in this story belong to J. K. Rowling.
> 
> Song: Animals by Maroon 5

* * *

She brought the pink orchids closer to her face and inhaled deeply. Virtually no fragrance—they must be one of the hybrid varieties. Making a face, but paying for them nonetheless, she walked on. Her usual purchase was a dozen white peonies, but the florist never kept them at around this time of the year.

It was barely after dark, and Ottery St. Catchpole cemetery was deserted. The decrepit gates creaked noisily as she pushed them open. Fred’s final resting place was located at the far end of the garden, beside the birch tree. Most of the families who had lost their loved ones in the second wizarding war had opted for the burial in the grounds of Hogwarts itself, where Dumbledore, Snape, Remus, Tonks and other martyrs were buried. But the Weasley’s had wanted Fred to be close to his home, closer to George. His tomb appeared well taken care of, of course, all because of George who never failed to visit his brother three times a week, sometimes more often.

She sat on her knees beside his grave, and placed the flowers next to the headstone.

How she hated orchids.

“I think you do too, Fred, so…”

She waved her wand and transfigured them into pure, dewy white peonies. Performing magic around a grave was considered to bring bad luck, but she had a feeling that Fred wouldn’t mind.

_Here lies Fred Weasley,_

_Beloved son, brother and a prankster till the end._

_(1978-1998)_

_Where’s the fun without a bit of risk?_

Hermione wasn’t sure that she agreed, but she had grown to acknowledge that the biggest risk in life was not taking one. Her first risk had been to believe in her latent magical powers when she was a child, and embark upon a journey in a world so foreign to her. She had befriended Harry, and it had generated an entire series of events which had shaped up her life in such a way that there was no going back. The biggest risk she had taken in her life was erasing her parents’ memories. But it had not had any lasting consequences; they were happy and well, with their memories restored, and had returned to their dental practice shortly after she’d done so. It had taken a lot of time and effort for her to find them, but she had succeeded eventually. She’d probably lost their unshakable trust, but figured that she deserved that; she wouldn’t trust herself either. But, as long as they were happy, and safe.

And then she’d taken the risk of not rushing into a relationship with Ron. And as far as that was concerned, the decision had not resulted in any fallout between them. The trio was as strong as ever, albeit a bit out of touch, with Ron happily married to Luna and Harry just about to father his first child with Ginny.

Hermione was currently working as an intern in Department of International Magical Cooperation. She had started out late because of having spent more than a year and nearly half of her prize money looking for her parents in Australia. With the continued exposure to the muggle life, came the risk she’d taken by dabbling with a muggle Psychology degree along the way. _That_ had not gone well. All she could think was — _why bother?! That’s what Legilimency is for._ But at least it had resulted in her meeting with Hugh—a muggle who frequented the café she was a regular customer of. Right now, they had decided to keep things casual in all places except for the bedroom, and Hermione found that she was okay with that.

There was the one risk she’d taken that she was deeply regretful for, one that she kept locked inside a nice, little, compact box of her own making, in her own mind. Some things were better left that way.

The leaves of the tree rustled around her, creating a hissing sound that suddenly made the cold much more apparent. It was time to go. She debated if she should stop by the Burrow on her way; it was nearly time for dinner, but decided against it. Something hovered at the back of her mind, something that was telling her to note that this decision was uncharacteristic of her; she’d always enjoyed a full meal with the Weasley’s, but shaking the feeling off, she came to her feet.

Something was wrong. She wondered what had caused her emotions to vacillate from total calm to sudden unease within a span of a second.

Ghosts were commonplace in the magical world, and the presence of one—or a few—should not surprise her at all, in a graveyard of all places. No, it was something else.

Slowly, she pulled out her wand, and mentally cursed herself for having twice rejected a place in the Auror training programme. It would’ve come in handy right now.

Slow, mocking laughter pierced through the night.

It was male. The pitch, the _voice,_ it freaked the hell out of her.

Not wasting any more time; Gryffindor courage be damned—sticking around now would be outright stupid—she turned on spot and Disapparated.

* * *

 

The closest Apparation point from her muggle flat was more than two miles away, so she ran the entire way. Her hands shook badly as she turned her key inside the door and rushed in, closing the door shut behind her. She kept her place well-warded, courtesy to the residual paranoia she’d carried since their Horcrux hunting days, but this time she was extra careful with her enchantments. It took her an entire ten minutes to become satisfied with her work.

She took several, deep breaths. _It’s okay. It’s fine._

Slowly making way to the sitting area, she took a seat in her small, comfortable sofa. She leafed through the copies of the Daily Prophet lying on the coffee table. Unable to find anything in today’s paper or the day before’s, she summoned the entire stack of last week’s papers.

She’d lost her habit of reading the Prophet. Partly because she’d grown complacent after the war, but largely because of the hogwash Rita Skeeter published nearly every day. It was five, _five_ whole years since the war, and she was still trying to cook up an imaginary romance between the members of the Golden Trio. Ron was married for Merlin’s sake, and Harry—geez that was just wrong. Every time either of them would be spotted with each other, the news of Ron cheating on her wife or Hermione trying to cause a split between Harry and Ginny would be out in the papers. She didn’t care; none of them did, but now regretted not having paid attention.

There it was.

_DRACO MALFOY RELEASED FROM AZKABAN._

_After completing five years of his penal sentence in the Azkaban, Draco Malfoy, son of renowned Death Eater Lucius Malfoy was released yesterday, ten days following the release of his mother Narcissa Malfoy. The list of charges against the youngest Malfoy has been fairly benign, and some might say irrelevant since our young Death Eater had not been of age during You-Know-Who’s return—a fact strongly heralded by his attorney Markell Bratton. It is interesting to note that the most significant charge against Malfoy is the attempted murder of late Albus Dumbledore, compelled by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named…._

She could read no more. Her eyes moved towards the date printed on top: November 13th.

He was back.

He was here. And he’d found her, in a time period of mere four days since his release.

_..and you’ll be waiting for me too…_

Had she been? If she were being completely honest, she _did_ venture into that box inside her mind now and then—

Her train of thought was interrupted by a loud knock on the door.

She pretended that it was not her door, pretended it was something else that was making the sound, before the knocking began again, harder this time.

Her heart rate must have spiked to three digits, and beads of sweat broke out on her skin. She hastily threw her scarf away, followed by her coat and sweater.

The knocking was relentless.

“Go away..” she whispered.

Finally, she took several steps towards the door, wand clutched tight in her hand. Slowly, she turned the knob, and opened the door just a crack.

It was Hugh.

She sagged in relief, letting out a nervous sound of laughter. She opened the door all the way, and hugged him as tightly as she could.

“Where the hell were you?” He spoke, the sound of his voice washing over her like a warm blanket. “I tried the keys, but they wouldn’t go in.”

“Oh God. Oh God…I was so, so scared..”

He pulled back and had a good, long look at her face.

“What’s wrong?”

“I thought..I thought—” She tried to articulate but failed. She was feeling lightheaded with relief, with happiness and…something foreign. “I thought you were someone else.”

He raised one dark eyebrow, blue eyes regarding her warily.

“What happened to your door? It looked freaky,” he asked. “Never mind. Let’s make you a cup of tea.”

That night she allowed herself to get lost in him. She trailed her hair down the length of his body, kissed him thoroughly and deeply, left crescent shaped grooves on his back, pleased him in ways that she’d never thought of trying before. It took them several times before she was exhausted enough to sleep, and she clutched him tightly afterwards, weeping silently to herself and trying her darned best to think of everything and absolutely anything that was not Draco Malfoy.

* * *

 

_Two weeks later…_

The Diagon Alley was filled with bustling shoppers. The cobbled streets were slick with snow and her feet left shallow grooves as she walked down the sidewalk, keeping her pace steady and unhurried. She was wearing a dark blue muggle overcoat, and it was styled in way that could easily pass for a robe. Her riotous curls were covered by a light blue knit cap, the rest disappearing down the collar of her coat. Her knee-high boots were black. All in all, she knew she was invisible.

So there was no reason for her to take a casual glance behind her back.

It was a mistake, and a blessing too, since she’d just caught a glimpse of pale blond hair about twenty feet behind her.

She turned on spot, Apparating over hundred feet ahead of where she’d last been and walked into the nearest shop.

She glanced around. Good, a Quidditch store. He’d have absolutely no reason to search for her in here.

She began browsing through the items, trying to look as inconspicuous as it was humanly possible for a young woman to do in a store full of men. Nobody paid her any attention, though, and she couldn’t help smiling widely at the first woman she saw.

She went deeper inside the shop, as the crowd thinned, brooms in the displays becoming longer, thicker in design, more heavyset, their prices lowering significantly, before somewhere deciding to hike up again—she’d stumbled into the antiques.

It was getting disturbing, and had even started affecting her health. She hadn’t been able to sleep soundly for the past entire week, and every time she would step out of the house, it felt as if she’d been marked out as a target. Her paranoia had returned with full force, and instead of growing more vigilant, she’d become careless; performing Disillusionment charms over herself in full view of muggles, running randomly through crowds, walking into dark alleys, all just to fend off that blur of pale blond she’d started seeing all over London.

Sometimes a voice inside her would ask—why was she running? Why couldn’t she just confront him and be done with it? What could he even do? She was a war heroine and he—he was a coward. So why was she behaving like one?

She’d run out of Sleeping potions and meaning to stock up with her supplies, she’d set out into Diagon Alley yesterday, before catching sight of a hooded figure leaning against a far off lamppost and hastily Disapparating.

Now she was here, still debating whether to stay or forget her Sleeping potion and run back to home once again.

She was still thinking when she caught sight of her reflection in the display ahead.

This aisle had been fairly deserted till now, and there was a man standing behind her, facing away. Her blood froze in her veins.

She couldn’t see his face, but she knew it.

Most shops had Anti-Apparition wards to prevent shoplifting so that was out of question.

He was still facing away, so decided to push her luck. She silently began sidling towards her left, edging towards the end of the display. A few feet more, and she’d be out. She’d be away, probably to Hawaii.

He moved with lightening quick reflexes, catching her by the waist, and rapidly pinning her against the glass, one hand clapping over her mouth, the other catching both her wrists and securing them high above her head.

She felt a wave of magic wash over her throat, and he retracted the hand covering her mouth, moving it to push the hood away from his face.

She opened her mouth to yell but found that he’d silenced her, wandlessly.

“Caught you.”

Struggling against his solid body for a few minutes, she came to the reluctant conclusion that it was useless.

Bracing herself, she finally gazed upon his face.

He was bigger, that much she could appreciate, but other than his size, and the length of his hair, he looked exactly the same. This fact went against her knowledge of Azkaban, limited as it was. Weren’t Dementors supposed to suck everything out of you? Yet here he was, staring at her with those intense, steady eyes, healthy vitality oozing from his physique.

Fine blond strands were falling into his eyes, and despite her predicament, her fingers itched to brush it away, just so he wouldn’t look so intimidating and scary. His expression was hard.

“Do have any idea how hard it is to get a hold of someone when you don’t have a wand?”

She bared her teeth at him. He chuckled, before lifting the spell.

“No.” She bit out. “Not much experience with stalking, you see.”

He leaned in.

“Told you I’d find you.” He whispered.

“You did and you have. Now leave.”

He smirked condescendingly.

“Why should I? This—” He tightened his hold on her wrists. “—seems so familiar.”

He glanced behind her.

“Different props, though.”

Her arms were starting to lose circulation.

“Malfoy, are you even capable of having a conversation with someone like a normal human being?”

“I am. What I’m not capable of is trusting you to stick around long enough to listen to me!” He hissed angrily.

“I’m listening, goddamn it!” She hissed back. “So, just get off me!”

He continued to stare at her with those piercing grey eyes, taking in every inch of her face.

She sighed.

“I promise, I won’t scream or run away. Let’s just get this over with.”

He regarded her sceptically, but finally released his hold on her and moved away, leaning against shelf opposite her. His eyes roved over the length over body, moving briefly to her left hand, before coming to rest on her face again.

“I knew you’d wait.”

“You’re as delusional as ever, Malfoy.” She lifted her hand and inspected her nails. “How did you know I was here, anyway?”

“I know you, Granger.”

Her head whipped up to look at him. It had been so long since she’d heard the word spoken in such a way. And she hated herself for blushing.

_Stupid, stupid!_

“I know your walk, your talk, your scent, your _taste._ ” He enunciated the words as if he were speaking in a language spoken only by the pair of them, and not plain English. That coupled by the look in his eyes, gods, it was beginning to drive her crazy.

“You can hide from everyone, but you can’t hide from me.”

She closed her eyes.

“I have told you before, Malfoy. Whatever we had before—it’s over. Besides, I have a boyfriend now.”

His eyes turned glacial. “And he will pay for it.”

She threw her hands up in the air.

“Oh, grow up, Malfoy! It’s time to move on!”

He was in her face in the blink of an eye.

“Stop saying that, damn it! Just stop fucking denying it! I see right through you, Granger. You’re not standing because of me, you’re here because you fucking _want_ to!”

“Oh, is that so?” she stated, “Then now I’ve decided that I want to _leave_. Excuse me.”

She made to move away but he stopped her again.

“It’s been more than five years since I’ve been with a girl. And you’ve probably had somebody to fuck every week since then.” He sneered. “Bit unfair, don’t you think?”

Her eyes widened at his audacity. The flippin’ _nerve!_ Her hand moved instantly to slap him.

He snatched her wrist from midair.

“Wrong move, princess.” He whispered.

He brought his mouth hard upon hers, and light exploded behind her eyes. She couldn’t say she was exactly surprised with the way they’d sealed shut on their own, but her knees buckled nonetheless. His arm tightened around her waist, and she let out a reluctant sigh against his mouth. He lips alternated between force and gentleness, and she knew that was his standard technique but this time she could sense vulnerability in his movements. His fingers shook in her hair, and his breath was coming short and erratic.

She opened her mouth just a fraction, and he delved inside with all the desperation of a man who just couldn’t get enough. Before long, she was responding. Stroke for stroke, tongue against tongue, heart against heart. The same voice inside her asked—why could it not be this way? Why was she so hung up on denying them _this?_

His hands moved against her cheeks, wiping the wetness away with butterfly light caresses that contrasted with the force of his mouth. Oh, _sod it._

She brought her arms around his neck and knotted her fingers in his hair. Suddenly, it was battle for dominance, and it went on for a while, before she realized that she was currently the only one fighting and her opponent was a statue beneath her hands.

Startled, she moved back to look at him, to find him watching her with that _look,_ and that _smirk_ , and it nearly set her skin on fire.

“Interesting.” His voice was low, husky. Her blush renewed. “Now imagine doing this with our clothes off.”

Her face was burning, and she lifted her hands to rub her cheeks with her palms. What was going on? What the hell was going on with them? What was wrong with the freakin’ universe?

She looked into his eyes, and found her answer.

It was…it was something in the air. It was tension that threatened to choke them in, and it was the heat that held the magnitude to burn them down. It was not love; it was too base a sentiment to even classify as “like”. She was pretty sure she didn’t love him now, but she was also sure that if she couldn’t love him, she wouldn’t be able to love another, anyway. Ever.

“Say something.” His voice was much quieter.

“I’m not about to make some grand confession, Malfoy.” She evaded.

“Say something.” He pressed.

_I just did, you dolt._

She pushed a hand deep inside her pocket, and pulled out her cell phone.

She offered it to him.

“Keep this. I’ll call you.”

He looked genuinely bewildered as he picked the phone between his thumb and forefinger.

“What the fuck is this—”

“Look I’ve got some things to settle back in the muggle world, so I’ll be—”

He was not listening.

“—can’t you just owl me? What am I supposed to do with this?”

“It’s a calling device, Malfoy and _I’ll_ call you.”

She thought for a second.

“So, meanwhile, you can research about it _._ It will keep you from stalking. Heaven knows you have nothing else to do.”

With that, she left him standing there, looking bewilderedly at the cell phone in his hand.

* * *

 

Three days later, sitting in her Ministry assigned cubicle, she got a text.

_Still waiting for you to call me. –DM_

_PS- your new number wasn’t all that hard to find._

She threw her head back and laughed.

* * *

 

 


End file.
